


I'm Proud of You

by TheLightFury



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Harry Potter, Depressed Draco Malfoy, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, POV Draco Malfoy, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Relationship, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, self-neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 17:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22499746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightFury/pseuds/TheLightFury
Summary: “I’m proud of you…”They were words he’d always craved hearing. Words he’d heard so often as a young child... But of course, as he grew up, those words were uttered less frequently; no Death Eater deserved to have someone be proud of them. And now every day was too hard, and before he knew it, he couldn’t leave his bed before noon, if at all. Couldn’t shower. Couldn’t face food. What was the point?When Eighth Year turns into his worst possible nightmare, Draco withdraws from everything, barely leaving his bed and spending most of his time dissociating and cursing his survival instincts, drowning in self-hatred. If only someone knew how desperately he longed to hear four words. But that was impossible now.Right?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 41
Kudos: 461





	I'm Proud of You

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, a maHOOsive thank you to my wonderful Alpha Etalice! She helped SO MUCH and reading her reactions to this fic was SO MUCH FUN! So seriously, thank you!
> 
> Second PLEASE READ THE TAGS! This fic has been described as harrowing. It is not a romantic view of mental health, depression, self-hatred, and comfort. It has in-depth details about how devastating depression can be. It hurts. Please don't trigger yourself <3
> 
> Third? Please enjoy! <3

_ “I’m proud of you…” _

They were words he’d always craved hearing. Words he’d heard so often as a young child. When he’d been able to recite the family motto. When he’d mastered both English and French. When he’d corrected his friends on details about blood status. When he got into Slytherin at Hogwarts. Each time, the rare, thrilling glint would shimmer in his father’s eyes and a warm glow would bloom in Draco’s chest. 

_ “I’m proud of you…”  _

Of course, as he grew up, those words were uttered less frequently. There was Granger overshadowing him, top of the class in every subject. A Mudblood. There was his inability to dabble in politics as his father had; by the age of 13, Lucius had already established a network of contacts; all Draco had was a broken nose. And then there was the small task of serving the Dark Lord in the place of his father, proving his devotion and worth to the cause with an impossible task. 

_ “I’m proud of you…”  _

No parents thought to say that they were proud of you when they were too busy praying for their lives to be spared—not even when you'd signed your own death sentence with a grotesque, burning tattoo on your arm just to save them. Not that becoming one of them was anything to be proud of—no Death Eater deserved to have someone be proud of them.

_ “I’m proud of you…” _

Still, he tried in Eighth Year. He tried to keep up with the syllabus, to keep his grades up, to change his views, his actions and words, hoping that someone, anyone would notice. Would hate him less. Would consider him worthy of being left alone. Would give him a reason to keep that tiny flicker of hope alive. For what was there left to fight for, but that ever wavering, ever weakening, glimmer of hope?

But every day was harder. Every curse at his back more painful. Every homework assignment more difficult to concentrate on. Every mouthful of food more tasteless. Every night more sleepless. Every memory of those four little words more distant. More unattainable. 

_ “I’m proud of you…” _

Before he knew it, he couldn’t leave his bed before noon, if at all. Couldn’t shower. Couldn’t face food. Couldn’t even look at the ever-growing stack of homework that was deposited next to his bed by the house elves and classmates tasked with delivering his work to him. Before he knew it, he was curse free. Not because people had stopped hexing him, but because he hadn’t left the dorm in over a week. Before he knew it, he was a skeleton, too weak to stand for long, and too exhausted to care. 

_ “I’m proud of you…” _

No one cared. Not one professor queried him about his absence. Not one dorm-mate stopped over—not that he expected them to. Not one whisper was uttered about him. 

And that was fine. 

He didn’t deserve anyone. He didn’t deserve anything. He barely deserved the blankets that kept him from freezing. There were times when he woke up screaming, tangled in them, and he was thankful for the fact that they were suffocating him. He deserved every ounce of pain he felt. 

_ “I’m proud of you…” _

When, after so long neglecting himself, he could barely stand, barely move without feeling dizzy, and was ravaged by cramps of hunger so harsh he doubled over in pain and nearly retched, he didn’t even think to change anything. He simply carried on sleeping and dissociating, ignoring his body’s cries, only leaving his bed when his bladder control threatened to fail—though what his body could be expelling, he had no idea. 

It was during one of those all too frequent, inescapable moments when he had to use the toilet—which only ever served to painfully remind him of the fact that he was still alive, somehow, unfortunately—when it happened.

He was shivering, leaning against the urinal for support now that he’d finished answering the call of nature, with a ringing filling his ears and a dizziness threatening to overtake him, begging him to collapse back into bed. But of course, he was unable to move, completely frozen as he half-heartedly tried to will his exhausted body back to bed. 

As he stood there, swaying dangerously despite resting on the wall beside him, suddenly a warmth cascaded over him. It hugged him, reached for his very soul—though that was long cold and deeply buried—and called to him, reminded him he was human, just for a second. So sudden, so powerful, and so  _ different  _ was it to his usual, entirely numb existence, that it was almost overwhelming; it practically knocked him over.

He hadn’t yet fully adjusted but was still shivering and swaying slightly with cold and shock when something cold was pushed into his hand. A glass. With a straw. Full of water. He’d just had enough time to process what it was before it was pushed it closer to his lips. 

Too tired to fight, he drew small, regular sips, feeling the cool water in his throat trickle all the way to his stomach, sending his head spinning again as his body cried out for more. Yet he found himself unable to manage more than half the glass, too exhausted, too weak to do more than push it away pathetically. 

“Well done,” a voice murmured. Familiar. Close. Kind. As the glass disappeared from view, Draco merely blinked, turned, and shuffled back to bed. The voice didn’t follow. 

As he crawled back into his disgusting nest, caked in sweat, dirt, and grime, the shimmer of warmth remained around him, fighting the numbness, desperately trying to comfort him, though it never quite succeeded. Soon after, the spell faded and numbness claimed him once more.

_ “I’m proud of you…” _

The world moved around him just as it always did. And still, he existed, barely noticing anything, much less caring; the nothingness was too strong, too thick, heavy, and oppressive to allow him to care. But still, light continually faded to darkness before brightening again, often seeming to do so suddenly, as Draco slept or dissociated through dawn and dusk more often than he was aware of them. But a few days after that encounter in the bathroom—judging by the number of times the light had waxed and waned—warmth appeared again, just on his arm this time. 

“Drink, Malfoy,” the same voice commanded gently. Not that Draco could place who it was. The fog was too thick for that.

Sluggishly his eyes—already open, apparently—focused on the figure before him, and dimly, he slowly recognised the glasses, the messy hair, the five o'clock shadow and green eyes. 

Potter. 

"Malfoy, have a drink," Potter repeated, bringing an object that must have been a glass with a straw in it into Draco’s vision and edging it to his lips. As an emerald gaze loaded with too many kind emotions for Draco to process met his eyes, Draco shut his own, shielding himself from them. Still, he obediently opened his mouth all the same, unable to resist the primal urge to drink.

If he had any energy at all, Draco would have questioned why the Gryffindor was doing this, asked why he cared, why his eyes were warm and not ice cold with hatred at the very sight of him, or sighed at Potter’s interfering and insulted him. But he didn’t. He didn’t even have the energy to feel anything at his existence being interrupted. 

“Good,” Potter murmured, as Draco took sips of the fresh, cool water. Each swallow drained his already depleted energy reserves so fast, he felt like he was running for his life, not merely having a drink. But instinct held him there until he’d finished another half a glass; only then was he able to relax, let the straw go, and start to sink into oblivion once more. 

"Thank you."

_ “I’m proud of you…” _

As sounds of Potter moving away reached him, unsurprisingly, Draco didn't have the energy to wonder why on earth he was being thanked. All he cared about was not being conscious when everyone else started moving around; it was less painful to exist when he was ignorant.

Before the door had even closed behind Potter, Draco had escaped into himself once more.

*

Pressure in his bladder forced him awake whilst it was still dark—though perhaps ‘awake’ wasn’t the right word. He wasn’t actually certain that he’d been asleep… Honestly it was difficult to tell nowadays, given that he spent so much time vacantly staring at various surfaces in the room. The only reliable way to tell if he’d been asleep was whether he woke up screaming or not… 

At his body’s insistence, he dragged himself past his now-sleeping dorm-mates into the bathroom once more, trying to ignore the all too familiar wave of dizziness, and screams of protest from every muscle—assuming he had any muscle left, that was. Somehow, he vaguely noticed, the dizziness wasn’t quite as strong as usual—not that the reprieve would last for long, he was sure.

As the air in the bathroom skittered over his pale skin, pulling it into goosebumps, he rested heavily once more against the urinal, letting nature take over, and tried to swallow past the gritty sensation in his throat. Just as with everything else in his life, however, he failed, practically choking on the gravel that clogged his throat, and suddenly, Draco found his eyes, unbidden, resting on the tap on the sink, thirst urging him towards it. 

He stared at the tap, watching transfixed, as a drop of water formed, tiny at first, but growing bigger with every second, plump, and clear, and undoubtedly refreshing. In just a few more moments, the bead of water was so large, so certain to quench even the most ravenous of thirsts, it could no longer remain attached. At gravity’s command, it fell into the sink below, shattering into a thousand tinier drops. The soft plink it made as it landed made Draco’s mouth suddenly feel as dry and gritty as a desert.

Yet exhaustion wracked him, his body shook, and with every second, the desire to slip into bed grew stronger. Unlike before, he had neither a glass or a straw to drink with, merely hands and a mouth, and he was sure his legs gave way if he tried to stand for much longer, or used his hands to do anything other than support him. So he tried to stumble away. He tried to just curl back up in bed and pray for dissociation to drown his thirst for a while. He tried to stop caring. And once again, he failed. As a memory of cool, soothing water circled in his mind, and the glorious sensation of relief taunted him, promising him a break from the sludge in his throat, he was forced towards the tap, desperately hating the survival urge that just wouldn’t die. 

Pathetically, slowly, he bent over the sink, wincing and swaying as a powerful wave of dizziness almost knocked him head-first into the mirror, before edging closer to the fresh stream of water, and sucking as much as he could from the tap. 

Once more, instinct took over, holding him in position as he slurped hungrily, feeling the water splash against his chapped lips, slide gently down his throat, wash away each bit of grime bit by bit, and make a cool pool of water in his empty stomach. Yet though it satisfied the craving that ravaged him, and though his head began to spin less, it didn’t feel as refreshing as the water Potter had given him for some reason. Not that he could do anything about that, of course, he could barely keep himself upright long enough to finish drinking, and then turn towards the door, pitching forward unsteadily in an effort to resume his cursed existence once more. 

It was only as he neared the bathroom door, eyes vaguely focusing on the path before him, that he realised he’d been watched. Blinking dumbly as his eyes threatened not to cooperate, slowly Draco focused, first on the bare feet, then up the snitch decorated pyjama bottoms, and over the bare chest of none other than Harry Potter, standing in the doorway.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you drink on your own in weeks, Malfoy,” he murmured quietly, as if entirely ignorant of the fact that Draco could barely comprehend his words, let alone respond to them. 

“I’m proud of you.”

At first, he didn’t hear what Potter had said, caught by another wave of dizziness and numbness, clouding his thoughts and muffling his senses. Yet as he continued to stare blankly at Potter, the echo of the words circled in his mind, and suddenly Draco blinked, Potter’s face coming into sharper focus. 

“What did you say?” he swallowed, voice feeling foreign after so long without use. His heart, which had only beaten out of listless duty in his chest for as long as he could remember, was suddenly jumping nervously, and the green eyes staring back at him earnestly set butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Quietly, Potter spoke again.

“I said I’m proud of you, Draco.”

All at once everything changed; suddenly the numbness that had claimed him for weeks was swept away, as if an invisible lock on his emotions had suddenly broken. Undone by the gentle words, a tidal wave of hurt, heartache, and grief was released, coursing through him, forcing tears into his eyes, and stealing the breath from his lungs as sobs rose in his throat faster than he could blink. As the first tears fell and a shaky breath shuddered through him, Draco’s knees buckled, throwing him towards the marble tiles. Strong arms rushed forward to catch him. 

“Hey, shhh, it’s okay, Draco, it’s—it’s going to be okay,” Potter murmured in his ear, the slightest hint of panic colouring his words as Draco cried—no,  _ wailed _ —into the Gryffindor’s chest. Every pain, every fear, every anxious thought, event, or moment of the last three years flashed before his eyes, sending new spirals of hurt through him, finally free, finally refusing to be ignored. His chest ached, his breath stuttered, his heart clenched, and all the while a voice yelled that no one should ever be proud of him, fuelling new sobs. Yet as he shook, Potter simply held him, guiding him to the floor gently. 

“I-hhh… Pohhtt-hh!-er, I-h!” he gasped, desperately gripping the man. The Gryffindor merely squeezed him, his heartbeat racing beneath Draco’s ear.

“I’m—I’m here Draco,” Draco heard him swallow through his tears, “It’s okay, just… Just let it out...” 

It wasn't as if Draco had a choice about the matter; now the flood had begun, there was no stopping it. He was entirely at the mercy of his emotions, hiccupping and gasping whilst clinging to the Gryffindor for dear life. Yet miraculously, as his whole body shook, he felt arms holding him tighter, closer, more securely. And Draco just wept. 

“Don’t—don’t try and stop before you’re ready,” Potter said, in a tone Draco supposed was supposed to sound confident. “Someone once told me that crying is meant to rebalance your emotions. So though this is probably the last thing you want to do right now, especially with me, just… Let it out, Draco. If there’s one thing the war has taught me, it’s that bottling everything doesn’t help. Even if the normal rules don’t apply to you because you’re an uptight Malfoy.” Potter squeezed him as a particularly violent sob wracked him.

“And…” Potter began again, still sounding uncertain. “And, Draco? I meant it. I am proud of you.” A new, feral stab of pain, hope, and pure need hit Draco in the chest, forcing a guttural moan into Potter’s torso as he sobbed anew. 

“You obviously need to hear that, so I’m saying it again, Draco. I’m proud of you.” Draco bit his lip, trying to muffle his cries to no avail.

“I’m proud of you for—for breathing. I’m proud of you for not coming to lessons when it was too hard. I’m… I'm proud of you for drinking. I’m proud of you for still being here, for coming back at all and trying to be different to your father. I’m proud of you for crying. I’m just… I’m just proud of you, Draco.”

As tears streamed down Draco’s face, head firmly lodged against Potter, he could only sob harder, clinging to the saviour like a child. With each tear he shed, and each word from the Gryffindor’s mouth, more pain escaped, coursing around his body, physically paralysing him in Potter's arms. Yet at the same time, more life seemed to unfurl in his chest. With Potter there, holding him up, squeezing him, and rambling stupidly wonderful things in his ear that Draco didn’t want to dare believe, but couldn’t help but clutch onto with all his might, for the first time since he could remember, he almost felt like he could actually  _ breathe _ . 

“But I’ma a-hhh! A Death-e-hh-Eater,” he cried eventually, the same voice that had taunted him for weeks on end, forcing him the statement out. Tentatively, Potter slid a hand gently into Draco’s hair, matted and oily though it was.

“Yes you were,” Potter answered hesitantly; Draco’s heart faltered, plummeting to his stomach as guilt mixed with his tears, and he instinctively drew his knees closer to his chest. 

“But not because you wanted to be, Draco. You were always more passionate about being a dick than a Death Eater, to be honest, and you were much better at being a dick, too." Potter paused as hope flared once again in Draco's chest. 

"It's obvious that you regret it all.” Potter murmured. “You’re still a person, Draco. You deserve a second chance.”

Almost impossibly, Draco’s throat tightened further, fresh ugly sobs wracking him once more as Potter simply held him, squeezing him tightly.

"I'm proud of you, Draco."

Waves of hurt, loss, anguish, and relief flooded him, drowned him even, stealing his ability to do anything but wail and cling to the Gryffindor, just waiting for the waves of emotion to calm. But somehow he knew, that wouldn't be for some time. There was so much hurt he'd locked away, so many months of pure pain. But Potter made no move to leave, to loosen his grip on him, or do anything other than hold him, and for once, Draco felt safe. 

If he wasn’t so overcome with emotion, so utterly swept away by pain and gratefulness and the rare, beautiful sensation of being cared for, Draco might have thought to wonder why Potter had noticed him in the first place, let alone bothered to help him, or let him drip snot and grime all over him. But he didn't. And he wouldn't for a long, long time. Instead, he'd just let himself be held, whimpering and choking out sobs in his arms.

“It’s okay,” Potter repeated after some particularly shuddering breaths. “Let it out, Draco, I’m proud of you. Take as long as you need.”

And so, wrapped up in Harry Potter’s arms on the bathroom floor, Draco finally let himself feel, let himself ride out each wave of emotion, all the while trusting the Gryffindor’s soft yet firm words that were ringing loud and clear in his ears. 

_ “I’m proud of you…”  _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! <3 Please come and say hi to me on Tumblr! @april-thelightfury115!


End file.
